What Colour Is The Sky?
by Delightfully Eccentric
Summary: Danger. Distress. The staff have reason fear for CJ and Toby.
1. Where The Heart Is

What Colour is the Sky?  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
DISCLAIMER: The West Wing characters and histories aren't mine and aren't being used for profit, blah, blah, how's your mother?  
  
SUMMARY: A crisis close to home interrupts the smooth (cough) running of the White House, and puts two of the staffers in peril.  
  
NOTES: The first chapter is FLOTUS POV, but this is an ensemble fic and the voices change throughout.  
  
Part 1 - Where The Heart Is  
  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"Last night before you fell asleep,  
  
You whispered something to me.  
  
Was it just a dream?  
  
I'm gonna listen to you close  
  
Cause your goodnight kiss  
  
Felt like a ghost."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
Jed Bartlet tapped his fingers on his whisky glass. He finished the drink with a swallow and raised the glass, tilting it till it caught the firelight. He wanted to see if he looked as old as he felt. Any minute now Abbey would be in to drag him to bed, using force if necessary. He really should be the one to go to her; it would ease her worry a little. He sighed heavily. She was in such a good mood this afternoon…  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
My, but it's good to be back. Hah! I must be out of my mind: good to be back at 'Ten Crises Before Breakfast' Central. Yep, I must've lost a few more marbles in Bonnie Scotland.  
  
I guess I didn't notice because everyone there is a few particles short of a nucleus: singing songs about shoving grannies off buses! What's that all about?  
  
Oops, I'd better stop talking like that or the British Ambassador will start leaping down Jed's neck and before we know it the press pack will have the voters convinced 3 in 4 White House staffers is racist, and we'll be at war with the Isle of Mull.  
  
Life was so much easier before I was married to the President of the United States. Of course, back then I was married to a Professor of Economics, and I had to watch my mouth in case I let his colleagues know how indescribably dull I found them.  
  
I guess Jed Bartlet just wasn't meant to have a mouthy wife. But he seems to like me, so I guess it's okay.  
  
I can't believe how glad I am to be walking into the White House again. I was so angry to have to leave my house when Jed was inaugurated; it took me so long to make it feel like home and I had to go and live in possibly the most impersonal building in the world.  
  
Oh, it might seem cool when you're taking the official tour but believe me, you don't want to live there. I care about my country's history as much as anyone but I'd prefer to see that stuff in a museum than in my living room. At home a family should make its own history.  
  
It's been a struggle, but I've come to accept the place for the simple reason that anywhere my family is by definition must be my home.  
  
And I'm very happy to be home after three weeks lecturing to troubled youths and visiting women's shelters in Scotland. Lord knows my staff were no help.  
  
Picture it: I've just arrived, there's a big function in my honour, all the most important people the little scrap of land has to offer in attendance. I'm the guest of honour (I am so bone-tired of being a guest of honour; can't I just be along for the party sometimes?). I'm holding court with the First Minister and his cronies while across the table Lily Mays is trying to maintain a conversation with some nouveau-riche entrepreneur, I think he owns a couple of their tacky tabloids (I'm telling you, nothing they have can hold a candle to the National Enquirer) or something.  
  
That woman, I have no idea why I gave her a job sometimes. She's been looking stuck for something to say for a while, then the light bulb comes on.  
  
"Hey," she drawls, loudly enough for everyone to hear over the hum of conversation. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but do you guys have television over here?"  
  
I swear the temperature dropped ten degrees.  
  
The businessman looks around at his compatriots with an amused smile, before turning back to Lily and exploding, "We only fuckin' invented it, ye Yankee eedjit!"  
  
The First Minister strategically avoided being seen with me too much for the rest of the trip.  
  
I can't wait to tell Jed that story, though I'm sure coming up with a way to halt the decline in Anglo-American relations will give his staff a few more late nights.  
  
Maybe I can tell it this weekend: he's promised me he'll make time to come to Liz's with me. I talked Zoey into cutting her Friday afternoon lecture so she can come with us, on the understanding that her father Must Never Know. We'll all sit round in easy chairs and keep the wine flowing and tell anecdotes and find out what's been going on in each other's lives since we last got together as a family. There's a lot to catch up on.  
  
This is very embarrassing; I'm so looking forward to it there's a tear in my eye.  
  
I have to stop this nonsense, I've reached the Residence.  
  
"Honey!" I yell. "Guess who's back?"  
  
I should have known better than to think he'd actually be at home. I wander the rooms, even the faulty bathroom, just to make sure, then I ask one of the secret service goons if they know where he is.  
  
"I believe the President is in the West Wing, ma'am."  
  
There's no way of telling from his tone whether my husband is playing poker with his staff or giving the order to bomb Israel. Well, I don't care. I am determined that nothing is going to spoil my homecoming, and especially not this weekend.  
  
The secret service guy says he'll radio to say I'm on my way. I ask him not to. Jed probably doesn't know I'm in the building yet; I'd like to surprise him.  
  
Mrs. Landingham looks up as I stride in flashing her my best "I'd like to see my husband now please" smile.  
  
I pause at her desk. She looks frazzled; it must've been a tough morning. Hell, when isn't it?  
  
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Landingham. How've things been since I've been gone?"  
  
She looks at me over the top of her glasses.  
  
"Well, dear, the country's been on the brink of war; two prominent Congressmen have had to resign; and my time's been split between helping Charlie convince your husband to take his pills and convincing Charlie it's not my job to help him convince your husband to take his pills."  
  
"As long as he takes them."  
  
"Don't worry." She smiles at me, but there's a trace of sadness behind it. "Whatever madness happens tomorrow, while I still have a job the President will take his pills."  
  
"Thank you," I tell her, and I mean it. "Can I go through?"  
  
She nods. "He's waiting for something urgent but I'm sure he can spare you a minute."  
  
"When do I ever get any longer, right?" I throw up my hands in mock despair as I head into the Oval Office.  
  
Right away I remember why I hate the White House. It's because I'm terrified of what it's doing to my husband.  
  
"Jed?" I'd been planning to race in and hug him but now that I see him I'm afraid.  
  
At first I fear he's had another episode with the MS, he looks so terrible. Quickly I realise it isn't that. Something's happened. Something bad. It's taking him a moment to register my arrival.  
  
"Oh, Abbey, thank God you're here."  
  
We're in each other's arms and he's holding on to me so tightly it hurts to breathe.  
  
All I'm thinking is that whatever I'm going to be doing this weekend, it isn't going to be swapping travel stories with my eldest daughter.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	2. Misadventures

Part 2 - Misadventures  
  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"Do all things without murmurings and disputings  
  
That ye may be harmless and blameless,  
  
The sons of God, without rebuke,  
  
In the midst of a crooked and perverse nation,  
  
Among whom ye shine as lights in the world."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
Donna buzzed around the bullpen, trying to make sure Josh would arrive to an organised office the next morning – or rather, this morning, she noted after glancing at the clock. It wasn't going to be a good day, though hopefully it couldn't be any worse than the one that had just ended.  
  
She heard a noise and wondered what other poor sap was still in the building at this hour. On a day like today it had to be someone's assistant, still engaged in picking up the pieces so that his or her boss would have one less thing to worry about – and because someone had to do the messy jobs that the senior staff probably didn't even realise had to be done.  
  
Donna stuck her head around the door to see if it was a friend she could commiserate with. Oh, lord. Charlie. She'd completely forgotten about him in the course of the day. So had Josh, she remembered disapprovingly. He must have had the day from hell. She appraised him with a look. Yes, definitely the day from hell.  
  
"Charlie?"  
  
He turned, reluctantly, she thought.  
  
"It's beyond late, Donna, you ought to think about heading home. Josh is going to need you in the morning."  
  
"And I'll be here when he needs me. I just want to see if you're okay."  
  
"I'm fine, I just need some sleep now. It's been a long day for everyone."  
  
Donna hesitated. Maybe she should give him his space.  
  
"Look, Donna, thank you for asking, but I'm okay. It's just – we're all upset, you know? And the President, he isn't allowed to be. He's got to keep going, give statements, tell the world it's going to be okay. He cares too, Donna. It's a lot of pressure. It's got to come out somewhere."  
  
Donna turned her head to wipe her eyes. He was certainly right about everybody being upset. In fact, upset was an entirely inadequate word to describe how they were feeling.  
  
"What the hell were they doing in that car, Charlie?"  
  
He didn't respond. She looked up to read his face and discovered he was gone.  
  
Donna went back into the bullpen to fetch her coat, and vowed to make more of a fuss of everyone in the morning.  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
Zoey's giggling helplessly as I hide her under the desk. There's no time to hiss at her to be quiet because her father's already right in front of me.  
  
That girl, she reminds me of my sister sometimes. That's a good thing, by the way.  
  
"Good morning, Mr. President," I say, jumping to open the door for him.  
  
He waves me down. Darn. He's not just passing through.  
  
"Did you take your pills yet, sir?" It's all I can think of on the spur of the moment to get him to leave.  
  
"Charlie, I do believe I can hear myself rattle when I walk from all the pills I've taken."  
  
Typical. Mrs. Landingham must have got to him first today. Sometimes I think this entire Administration is involved one big conspiracy against me. Then I wake up and remember they have much bigger things to conspire against. Still, you have to wonder...  
  
"The First Lady's due back today, you know," he says conversationally.  
  
He doesn't seem to be in any hurry to move on.  
  
Zoey starts running her hand up and down my calf. I twitch in surprise, then I have to bang the desk to mask her snort of laughter. I can't believe she thinks this is funny.  
  
Well, I can. That's why I'm so much trouble with this girl. I know what she is and I like her anyway.  
  
"Is something wrong, Charlie?"  
  
I'm saved from responding by the arrival of Mr. McGarry, the rest of the senior staff trailing behind him all talking at once.  
  
I figure they must have some communications skills or Mr. Bartlet wouldn't be in office and I would still be flipping burgers, but when they get together let's just say those skills are well-hidden.  
  
I'm forgotten immediately, as usual. I shake off Zoey's grasp and open the door. My girlfriend's father and his staff are soon gone, Thank the Lord.  
  
Zoey's out from under the desk a mite sooner than I think is safe, but no- one seems to have noticed. I can't resist pulling her into one last kiss before sending her off in the opposite direction from her father with a slap on the butt.  
  
I can hear her giggling long after she's gone.  
  
The door to the Oval Office opens.  
  
"Charlie, would you come here a second?"  
  
Oh no, someone did see her. He's going to make my life hell, and it's close enough already.  
  
"Do you remember that fascinating conversation we had a few evenings ago?"  
  
Hmm, maybe it's going to be okay after all - or as okay as conversations with my prospective father-in-law get.  
  
"The one about the finer points of Ancient Greek grammar, or the one about whether or not it would be compromising your philosophical beliefs to invite Richard Schacht to a dinner?"  
  
I notice CJ and Toby exchange an amused look.  
  
"No, no, neither of them. The one about preservation the rare island grey fox."  
  
Oh. That one.  
  
"Yes sir, I remember. It was a particularly... lengthy conversation."  
  
"Charlie, do you think you and I should share that conversation with these other people here?"  
  
Josh groans aloud. He'll pay for that at some point, I'll bet. CJ's hand covers Toby's for the briefest moment. Sam looks slightly ill. I think he's still smarting from the discussion on Polish literature of the 1920s.  
  
"Enlightening as I'm sure they'd find it, sir, their time could perhaps be more productively spent serving the people," is my careful response.  
  
"Oh no," the President says cheerfully. "If they had real work to do, they wouldn't be arguing with me about my holiday plans."  
  
"Mr. President, we have absolutely no problem with you spending the weekend with your family," Toby pipes up. That guy never knows when to let something lie. "But this week in Florida idea – we just don't have time for that at this stage in your term."  
  
"We're well aware that Florida is an important state," CJ joins in before the President can argue, "but it's not the only important state. If we spend a week there, California will want to know where we are."  
  
"So will Texas," Toby says, nodding vigorously. "CJ's right, Mr. President. You need to listen to her more."  
  
Even she looks surprised when he says that.  
  
"You've been acting strangely these last few weeks, Toby," the President states.  
  
"Sir-"  
  
"CJ, believe me when I say you have no room to comment on this."  
  
I wonder if I'm supposed to have left yet. Sometimes the President forgets to tell me to go and I hear more than I'm supposed to. This is getting a little awkward.  
  
CJ and Toby are scooting along the couch to put more distance between them. Josh and Sam are watching the scene, fascinated. It's the nearest thing to a soap opera they can fit into their schedules.  
  
The boss notices and dismisses us, keeping the two naughty kids back.  
  
Mr. McGarry hangs around outside with me, waiting to see the President when he's finished.  
  
"How does he seem to you?" he asks cautiously.  
  
I shrug. "He's looking forward to seeing the First Lady."  
  
"Yeah..." We share a look. I'd like to take this opportunity to point out it's nothing like the looks CJ and Toby have been sharing.  
  
"He has been a little worn lately," I admit.  
  
"Let's just hope things stay quiet for a while, huh?"  
  
I nod, thinking, some chance.  
  
"This weekend at Lizzie's will do him the world of good."  
  
He doesn't seem to be expecting much of a response, so I just nod again.  
  
Toby and CJ burst out of the Oval. CJ looks like she wants the ground to swallow her. Toby's in the middle of a rant:  
  
"I'm telling you, I am perfectly relaxed!"  
  
They're gone in a second and Mr. McGarry joins the President, leaving me alone. I briefly consider working through the pile of mail that's waiting for me before rejecting that thought and sitting back. If I close my eyes, I can still hear Zoey laughing...  
  
  
  
5 hours later  
  
  
  
I grab two ringing phones at the same time. There's so much noise from people flying back and forth I can't make out what the callers are saying, so I just say I'm sorry but now isn't a good time and hang up. Like they don't know that. Like that isn't why they're calling.  
  
The rings start again the instant I put the receivers down. I can hear the President's footsteps and I can sense in the sound of them that he's going to yell at me when he gets here. Somewhere in the distance Mrs. Landingham's calling my name and I look for her. Even in the midst of all this, Mrs. Landingham's is not a voice to be disregarded.  
  
"Charlie? I have young Elizabeth on the phone here. She's quite upset, the poor girl. Would you talk to her for a minute?"  
  
I'm lost for a moment.  
  
"Zoey's sister Elizabeth?"  
  
She presses the phone into my hand and answers another one.  
  
Oh my. The woman on the other end of this phone is hysterical. How the heck am I supposed to know what to say to this person I've never met?  
  
"Ma'am? This is Charlie Young. Try not to upset yourself."  
  
It's a heck of a stupid thing to say, but I'm too swamped to care.  
  
"Is my father okay?" she sniffles.  
  
"He's fine, ma'am, he wasn't anywhere near the accident."  
  
"I mean the stress. Is it getting to him? Is he going to get ill?"  
  
"I don't think so..."  
  
Just then the President arrives, bellowing at the poor aides following him.  
  
"Charlie!" he yells, catching sight of me.  
  
"He seems to be coping well under the circumstances," I lie.  
  
"What the hell were they doing, Charlie?" Elizabeth is asking.  
  
"We don't really know that for sure at this time."  
  
I eye the President warily as he picks up Mrs. Landingham's stapler. He's turned a worrying shade of purple. I wonder if he was telling the truth about taking those pills.  
  
"He's not going to be anywhere near my house this weekend, is he?"  
  
"What?" I've forgotten who's on the phone.  
  
"Charlie, get off the damn phone," the President's calling. "I need you to call the hospital right now, we should have had another update already!"  
  
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I say, recovering. "This really isn't a good time."  
  
I hang up before she can protest.  
  
Josh Lyman rushes past me looking like someone ripped out his innards and replaced them with an angry demon.  
  
Before I got this job, when Deena and I still lived in the old apartment, I used to see guys looking like that a lot. I saw them when I was hurrying home with my head down because those guys looked like that when someone had been shot and someone else was abut to be.  
  
I have Josh to thank that I don't still walk those streets.  
  
I still owe him.  
  
He throws down a newspaper behind him.  
  
I bend to pick it up, thinking guiltily how glad I am that it isn't him this time. He's always been a friend to me, the best one I have at the White House, and he's a damn good man. Not that Toby and CJ aren't, but –  
  
I have to sit down.  
  
"Charlie!"  
  
The President's behind me and although I try to hide the paper, he's already seen the headline:  
  
"BARTLET'S STAFF FEARED LOST IN ROAD HORROR"  
  
I reach for the nearest phone and dial the hospital's number.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	3. Playing Dead

Part 3 - Playing Dead  
  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"And the light shineth in darkness  
  
And the darkness comprehended it not."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
Sam Seaborn collapsed into one of the hard moulded chairs in the hospital corridor. It was only a few yards from Toby's room; he would be able to tell by the flow of doctors and nurses if there was any change in his condition. They seemed to be gone for the time being.  
  
There had been so many, all frantically busy, just a few minutes ago, Sam had been sure that his boss, his friend was dead. Automatically he'd run after them, followed them to Toby, but when he'd reached the doorway he hadn't been able to bring himself to go into the room.  
  
Sam clenched his eyes shut but the image of what he had seen would not leave him.  
  
A woman had been in one of the chairs when he arrived but the sight of a grown man with tears in his eyes seemed to embarrass her so she walked away. Just like he had walked away from Toby.  
  
The sight had been something worse than he could have pictured. It wasn't the wounds or the doctors hacking away at him. It was that Toby, the essence of Toby that could fill an empty room, wasn't there.  
  
What the hell had they been doing in that car?  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
I feel strange. I'm here but not here.  
  
A minute ago someone was leaning over me in my bed, touching me. It's been a long time since I've had anyone to touch me. Recently I had hopes that maybe again... But that seems a world away.  
  
Anyway, this touching isn't nice. It's invasive, painful. I can't feel it because I'm not really here but I know it's an intrusion.  
  
Oh. Suddenly I'm in CJ's office. That's okay, I know where that is. I'm talking to her. That's okay too, I know who she is.  
  
"Toby, there's no room in the White House for this kind of nonsense," she's saying. It takes me a moment to realise she's addressing me. I must be Toby then.  
  
"Oh, well, I'll store that up for future reference: when CJ Cregg spends months using all kinds of devious means to get a guy to open up about something, it doesn't mean she actually wants to hear it!"  
  
I think it was me that said that. Why am I being sarcastic? Am I trying to hurt her feelings or am I trying to mask the fact that mine are hurt?  
  
She obviously thinks it's the latter because her expression softens and she tells me, "I didn't mean your feelings are nonsense, Toby. Of course I wanted to hear it. I just think we need to be a little more professional in the office."  
  
"Let's get out of the office, then," I say off the top of my head.  
  
It's strange. That doesn't sound like my voice and it doesn't sound like something I would say.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Come on, let's go, let's get out of the office."  
  
"That's just fine apart from the small matter of our jobs!"  
  
"CJ, we think about our jobs twenty-four-seven. I for one don't think I give my job the attention it necessitates until we get some resolution on this!"  
  
"I-" She's confused but not as confused as I am right now. "I guess it is a slow news day..."  
  
"I don't have anything urgent on either, nothing that I can't palm off onto Sam until we get back anyway."  
  
"Back? Where are we going?"  
  
"Maryland. We're going for a drive. I'm going to take you somewhere in the car and we're going to talk. You're always asking me to talk to you."  
  
She moves to her desk and starts rummaging.  
  
"Come on," I command. "You'll be back before evening."  
  
"Wait a minute," she snaps. "I'm looking for my keys. If you're dragging me off into darkest Maryland we're at least going to take my car."  
  
She's got to have her little bit of control. It doesn't bother me. In fact, I like it.  
  
Ohhhh. What a strange and unpleasant sensation. Haven't I had this conversation? I'm sure CJ and I have said exactly these things before? I don't think it felt so sick and frightening before, in fact I'm sure it didn't.  
  
Didn't this all happen earlier, before I was here where I'm not? Maybe it did happen earlier. But I thought it was happening now...  
  
It doesn't matter because I'm floating now and I'm not here, but I can still see here and it looks like I'm here.  
  
There's no-one with me on the bed now. Wasn't CJ just on the bed? Oh no, that wasn't CJ, that was someone bad, hurting me, and CJ's good. She wouldn't hurt me – but, hey, she did hurt me!  
  
It was her hurting me in my bed. No, wait, that wasn't my bed, it was my car. No! It was her car. That's it, that's where I am, we're in CJ's car driving through the small towns of Maryland.  
  
Oh... It seems like we're arguing. I don't like this at all. She's telling me all the things I've done wrong and how I've hurt her without even meaning to and hearing about it is hurting me in return.  
  
I know she's right but I don't admit it. I'm being snappish and sarcastic and doing exactly what she's complaining about. I wonder why I'm acting that way.  
  
"Toby!" she yells but her voice cracks on my name. She takes a hand off the wheel to wipe some tears from her eyes.  
  
"Watch the road, we're approaching the bridge," I say calmly, though I feel anything but.  
  
"Why can't you just admit you're only a human being like the rest of us?" she implores.  
  
She sounds desperate. Why am I being like this? I can't change it though; it feels predestined. I'm not choosing what to say, I just hear the words coming from my mouth.  
  
"Why can't you admit you don't know a damn thing about me!"  
  
She doesn't answer. She doesn't get the chance.  
  
A cat darts out in front of the car. CJ, an animal person, instinctively swerves without thinking about it.  
  
At the same time the first car we've come across for miles comes off the bridge too fast and careers into our rear, which is sticking out because CJ swerved too hard.  
  
This would all be okay if we were still on the main road but we're too close to the bridge, I think frantically.  
  
Well, we were too close to the bridge a second ago. Now we're flying right off it.  
  
I know for a fact that all this happened before. It's happening in slow motion this time, happening, I believe, just so that I fully appreciate all the stages of surprise and terror registering on CJ's face. She looks at me and in that look she seems to say she's sorry for doing this to me. For killing me. I want to tell her she didn't, that I'm okay, but it looks pretty bad from here.  
  
I don't understand. I can see myself now and I'm not in CJ's car. Where am I? Why am I able to see my own body lying on a bed that isn't mine? I'm not here. But I must be here, I'm not there, there's where I'm not. Where's there? Where's here?  
  
Landmark, I need to find a landmark. I'm surrounded by nothingness. That at least makes sense. I've always been surrounded by nothingness, it's just that it's usually moving really fast.  
  
There's a light somewhere, a bright light side. That's not usual. I wonder if the light is CJ.  
  
There's a dark side too and it's right in front of me. I don't think it's something I need to be worried about; the darkness doesn't look any deeper than it usually does. Maybe I should go forward and embrace it as an old friend.  
  
Okay, that isn't working. I can't move. That's weird. I don't seem to have a body. I can see my body, it's still lying on a bed that isn't mine. It must not be real. That's logical: to really be seeing it, I'd have to have eyes and if I don't have a body I don't have eyes, right?  
  
Does that make sense or not? I can't tell right now. I feel a little nervous now, like I'm about to start stammering and mixing up my grammar. That thought frightens me to hell.  
  
Where's the light gone? It was somewhere to my left and behind but I can't turn round because I don't have a body. So how could I see it before?  
  
I think it's possible that I'm starting to panic. I can't be sure because I've never panicked before so I don't know what it feels like, but I think that could be what's happening now.  
  
The light's gone and the darkness is getting bigger and everything is tinted red because up above there are layers of gases and they're all different shades of crimson and scarlet and blood. I really don't like the way my not-real body looks. It looks... dead. I wish I couldn't see it. I wish I wasn't where I am. I wish I could move away. I wish I could stop impotently wishing like I did when I was a little boy.  
  
Hey! There are more people touching me in this bed that isn't mine! I don't like this; I didn't tell them they could do this. I'm not at all comfortable about all these people tearing at my flesh. I can't feel a thing or hear a word they're saying but I can see them yelling at each other and poking at me. What are they doing to me?  
  
I don't recognise any of these faces. Why do I have people I don't even know surrounding the bed I'm in? Maybe this is a set-up. Maybe there's a photographer hiding somewhere. That's it; someone in the press is out to get me. Perhaps Danny Concannon is jealous of the time I've been spending with CJ and is trying to ruin my reputation. If I could talk, I'd tell CJ I didn't invite these people to my bed and I don't know how to get them out. I wonder if she'd believe me.  
  
But it can't be that, what these people are doing isn't like that. I can't feel anything right now, but I can tell they're hurting me. I can sense my not-real body's pain.  
  
I look at the door, searching for a photographer in the vain hope that maybe this is just a set-up and that maybe I'm okay really, and there at last I see a familiar face, only I'm not sure who it is.  
  
It's a young man, young by me at least. He's not with the people who are hurting me; he looks lost and out of place. He's not supposed to be there, I can tell. He doesn't even look like he wants to be there. He looks like he's afraid to leave but even more afraid to stay. I wonder what's frightening him. Maybe he thinks when they finish with me they'll start hurting him.  
  
I don't think it can be that though, because I think I can sense a lot of pain coming from him already. I wonder what's happened to him. He doesn't look bruised or anything but I can definitely feel a terrible hurt in him. I wish I could help. I feel so sorry for him.  
  
I wonder who he is. I know I know him; I just can't remember how I know him. I believe there's a strong link between us. Could he be my son? Surely I'd remember if I had a son. I'm fairly sure I didn't have a son when I was in the car with CJ. A younger brother, maybe.  
  
It suddenly occurs to me that maybe I hurt him. I don't know what makes me think I might have done that. I seem to remember that I'm supposed to be grumpy and mean. I hope I didn't hurt him. I wonder why I'm grumpy and mean. Why would a person be like that? I hope I didn't hurt that young man because under the crimson light I can see his heart pounding in his chest and it's a big, good heart and I hope I didn't damage it.  
  
My sentence structure is going all to hell now. I don't know how I know this, but that isn't like me. I wonder what's wrong with me.  
  
Those people seem to be finished with me for the time being, thank God (I would if I could remember how). They're yelling at the young man now. One of them is taking him by the arm and trying to lead him out. He shakes off her hold and turns away so I can't see his tears as he leaves.  
  
If I knew where I was maybe I could figure out where he is going and follow him.  
  
I'm still here yet not here.  
  
I wonder if I am going to die.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	4. State of Being

Part 4 - State Of Being  
  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"If the darkness and corruption leave  
  
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,  
  
Better by far you should forget and smile  
  
Than that you should remember and be sad."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
Ron Butterfield's hand found its way to his bald spot, a habit he'd picked up over the years because he'd been paranoid about it growing larger.  
  
Colleagues often misinterpreted it as a sign he was unfeeling about the life-and-death situations he was involved in every day. Butterfield preferred to think of it as a sign that he was still human in spite of it all.  
  
He was no egotist, but he knew it took a special kind of character to face these things and walk away.  
  
The man seated at the table in front of him clearly did not have that kind of character.  
  
William Eastman. 58 years. Divorced with one child, a daughter named Karen. No police record unless you counted a few speeding tickets.  
  
That was the really ironic thing. He hadn't even been speeding when he hit them. Driving irresponsibly fast for that section of road, certainly, but breaking the law, no.  
  
Butterfield's investigation had uncovered no grounds for blaming him. His contacts at the White House certainly did, but Butterfield knew better than to listen to them when they didn't know what they were talking about.  
  
What he had yet to explain to the President was that the accident evidently hadn't been the sole responsibility of this guy. If he'd made a mistake, it hadn't been any bigger than any CJ Cregg had made.  
  
It was obvious that the man was emotionally shattered. He'd seen it often enough before in survivors of carnage. The press hoopla surrounding this particular event could not be making it any easier.  
  
Butterfield wondered how Eastman would handle it if CJ Cregg or Toby Ziegler died.  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
I should try to get some sleep, they keep telling me. What a joke. I don't ever want to close my eyes again.  
  
I don't want to see that woman's face again.  
  
It can only have been a fraction of a second during the moment of impact – after I hit her and before we went flying in different directions. Our eyes met in the same instant she realised she couldn't stop. Then she turned to her passenger and I carried on into the crash barrier on the other side of the road.  
  
It was such a beautiful day.  
  
This is crazy, crazy. I might as well be trying to sleep if I'm going to keep going over and over this again. I'll have to go over it again for them soon anyway. They've already told me there's another man who'll need to ask me a few questions – someone involved with national security or the President or something.  
  
I know they're investigating my background as well, not that they'll find anything colourful. I've had a pretty boring life up until now.  
  
The big events, the emotional stuff, it's been the same kind of thing most people go through: I got married to a pretty girl who was too young; we fought a lot; I drank some, which gave her eight sisters more ammunition to use against me. I swear it was her stupid sisters who persuaded her to hook up with that loser. I mean, what kind of man takes a mother away from her child?  
  
This is all flashing through my mind right now because I desperately want to see Karen. One of the greatest blights of my life is that I can't think of my daughter without thinking of her mother and how I screwed that up.  
  
I always thought that was the biggest mistake I'd ever make.  
  
Now those two people are lying in hospital, they might even be dying, all because of me. Because it comes naturally to me to squeeze the gas when I'm on the open road.  
  
But I wasn't on the open road, that's the problem. If I had been we'd have seen each other coming and even if I had bumped her it wouldn't have been at that angle, the angle that sent her over the edge.  
  
It was a few minutes before I recovered from the impact and got out of my car. I even closed the door behind me and as I staggered over to the bridge I was thinking, why did I bother to close the door.  
  
Then I realised she was gone. Her car wasn't lying with some scratches in the paintwork and a dent in the front bumper like mine. Her car was nowhere to be seen.  
  
I was a little shaken up already and I started getting all these crazy ideas, like you know the stories people tell about truckers picking up phantom hitch-hikers, and drivers seeing ghosts in the road?  
  
It makes no sense, none of it. How could the world change so much in a minute?  
  
I followed the skid marks because they seemed to be real and everything was feeling very otherworldly at that point.  
  
Now it's starting to sink in, just how real it all is.  
  
I made my way to the bridge, wondering if she'd just driven on. It didn't seem likely but I was too dense to realise where she must have gone.  
  
I thought of Karen, and along with the customary ex-wife-related anger comes anger at myself for not listening to my daughter and getting a cell phone. It'll come in handy, she said. You might need it in an emergency.  
  
Karen's a lot smarter than her father. She's not a small-town hick like me. She moved to DC just like those people I might have killed.  
  
She has a job on the Hill – don't ask me to explain what it is, I'm far too old and backward to understand the details, but she loves it and it makes her happy. Now I keep thinking, what if it makes her dead?  
  
I need to see her but at the same time I never want to see her again. How can I look my daughter in the face knowing she knows what I've done?  
  
They tell me she's been calling but that it's important I don't speak to anyone just yet. I wonder if they think she might talk to a reporter. Or maybe they think I might have been acting in collusion with her bosses to kill those people.  
  
It seems so ridiculous, them wasting their energy on nonsensical ideas like me being an assassin when something as real and undeniable as this has happened.  
  
Anyway, I couldn't recreate that accident if I tried – except in my mind, of course. A second earlier or later, or a centimetre to the left, and I'd have passed them by.  
  
I was at the edge of the bridge, hanging over, before I realised what had happened to the woman's car.  
  
The ripples on the river where she'd hit had yet to subside; a man was clinging to a boat that must have capsized.  
  
The first thought I had was that even if the man on the boat had a cell- phone, it would have been ruined by the water.  
  
My second was that the woman I'd seen was dead.  
  
I stumbled back to my car and started driving towards the nearest town at twenty miles an hour.  
  
Actually, that's a lie. The nearest town was back the way I'd come but unconsciously I made the decision not to drive back over the bridge and chose the other direction.  
  
They picked me up five miles out of town. Agents from every law enforcement agency you could name. I guess another boat came past. They thought I was fleeing the scene.  
  
I haven't tried to explain that I was just trying to find someone to tell but I think they've figured it out.  
  
When they told me who I hit I almost passed out, not because they have important jobs and have been on TV but because it's easier not to put a name on a person you might have killed.  
  
I'm too ashamed to ask how those people are but they've been telling me anyway, every time there's news. It never sounds too good.  
  
Well, they both survived surgery which, they tell me, is a miracle in itself – but they're both going to need more, if they make it that long.  
  
The man, her passenger, has already had his arm taken off: his left, above the elbow.  
  
They say he's a speechwriter, I sit stupidly thinking I hope it's not his writing hand.  
  
I'm sure Karen's read me parts of his speeches before. She does that, even though she knows I don't understand. She gets carried away by her own enthusiasm.  
  
Now that they've told me who those people are, I'm sure she's spoken of them. Karen's not in that league yet but she wants to be and she's learning by observing the masters.  
  
The thought suddenly hits me that I might have ruined her career. They say this President's staff is very close-knit. She'll forever be remembered in politics as the daughter of the man who took those people out of commission.  
  
I know their names now but I don't feel I have the right to use them.  
  
I've ruined my daughter's life as well as her mother's. At least her life isn't over.  
  
I'm not just talking about the people in the car. My ex-wife died last week; I was driving back from the funeral when it happened. I'm not sure why I went. She wouldn't have wanted me to be there. She hated me. Karen didn't even go, why the hell should I?  
  
I'm lying again. I know why I went. The same reason I still get angry whenever I remember she exists – existed. I loved her.  
  
You know why she died? Her liver packed in. Too much alcohol over the years. And why did she start drinking? That's right. Me.  
  
I drank more than she did. I drove faster than the woman in that car.  
  
Why the hell am I still alive?  
  
My life is over now. How will anyone ever be able to have anything to do with me knowing what I've done? I should be dead. If anyone ever hurt Karen like I hurt that woman I'd want them dead.  
  
Though I probably wouldn't be able to find the courage to kill them.  
  
Maybe I can still save Karen. If I die the world might forgive her for being my daughter.  
  
I'm not getting carried away; I know there's nothing I can do just now when all these people are watching me.  
  
But when all the fuss dies down and they've found out I'm not a killer-for- hire and those people are still lying dead or maimed and nobody's looking anymore, then I'll have my chance to put a tiny part of this right again.  
  
Meanwhile I wonder what I've done on a global scale. I know what Karen does is important, multiply that by a big number and you've got what that woman and the speechwriter do.  
  
They say the President is getting sick over this. God knows what this is doing to the nation. What I've done to the nation.  
  
It's almost funny. Me. I'm nobody. What other way could anything I ever did possibly have had any effect on the world?  
  
This is my legacy.  
  
For Karen's sake I hope they don't die.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	5. Before I Wake

Part 5 - Before I Wake  
  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"As I lay me down to sleep  
  
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.  
  
If I should die before I wake,  
  
I pray the Lord my soul to take."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
The dull crackling of the television sets on the office wall wasn't as irritating as it usually was. Danny was actually finding it comforting for once. It reminded him of CJ's office and for some completely illogical reason it felt like the electric hum meant she was still around somewhere. That she hadn't given up yet.  
  
Danny aimed another page from his notepad at the wastepaper basket and again missed completely. Who was he kidding? What could he write about this?  
  
Something from the wall of TVs caught his attention and he turned the volume up on one of the sets.  
  
The anchor on CNN was talking to some mealy-mouthed political consultant about whether it could be considered irresponsible for two staffers in such senior positions to drive off without telling the White House where they were going, or indeed that they were going at all. As if that would have saved them. Since it had been confirmed that the reports of their deaths had been premature it seemed to be considered fair game to say CJ and Toby were at fault for getting themselves very possibly killed because it left the country without two of its many servants.  
  
Danny bristled with silent fury. He wondered how CNN knew they hadn't told anyone. He vowed to himself that he would find the leak and when he did he would tell Leo McGarry and get them fired. If he wouldn't fire the bastard over that, Danny would say he'd received other, more damaging, information from the same source. It was a small piece of revenge but it was better than nothing. It felt like a miracle CJ had ever woken again after the injuries she'd sustained, and maybe Toby never would. Danny wasn't about to forgive anyone for sullying her name.  
  
He laid his head on his desk and racked his brains for the hundredth time trying to think of someone he could call who would tell him more about her condition.  
  
He realised he was the only one left in the building. That wasn't so uncommon. However, he usually had something more to show for his dedication. He realised his pad was half-finished already and he didn't have a single page of notes. Maybe he should just have turned on the computer and started typing.  
  
He pulled the plug out, causing the televisions to flicker and die.  
  
Who said emotional attachments made a journalist weak?  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
Ugh. It's morning. Morning in the sense of being the time I have to get up for work before the first averted apocalypse of the day. To any person with a real life, it's actually the middle of the night.  
  
This, sadly, does not alter the fact that I have to get up. I wonder why my alarm isn't giving me a migraine already.  
  
It feels like the first day of a week-long hangover, but then it always feels like that at this time in the morning.  
  
It really is odd that I'm awake before my alarm's gone off.  
  
I try to look around but my eyes are typically reluctant to open. Ugh. Remind me to start looking for a nine-to-five job.  
  
I'd better make an attempt to move in the direction of the alarm before it goes off and worsens the headache I've already got. Okay, one, two, three, move...  
  
Oh my God, pain! Aw, man that hurts!  
  
I'm starting to get scared. Now that I've started it's quickly escalating into terror. I realise it's not just my head that hurts.  
  
I am in a lot more pain than is standard even for a five a.m. start.  
  
What have I done? That has to be my first question. At work it's always what has someone else done – but as far as I can make out, this is outside the office. That means it must be something I've done.  
  
What's the last thing I remember? I don't know, my memories are all confused, I don't know what happened first or last or what.  
  
Have I been drugged? It's hard to tell, my head is never exactly clear at this hour. I know this, if I have been it hasn't done anything for the pain.  
  
I want to cry. I want my mother.  
  
I have a vague feeling that my mother is dead. Maybe I killed her. Maybe that's the stupid, bad thing I did that made me end up here. Wherever I am.  
  
Wherever she is, I hope she doesn't know what I've done. Whatever I did. I hope she doesn't know how stupid I've been.  
  
I've fallen over the edge into panic. Isn't someone supposed to catch you when you fall?  
  
It even hurts to breathe. To get air into my lungs I'm instinctively breathing more heavily, which makes me start to cough, which is absolute agony. It's now I realise that I have a tube down my throat.  
  
I try to scream.  
  
Someone's there, someone's hovering over me. I can sense the motion but I can't see them, my eyes are still refusing to open.  
  
Oh... now I have a tiny slit of vision. Yes, someone is above me, maybe more than one person – I can't see clearly enough to be sure.  
  
I'm torn between relief that I'm not alone and fear because I don't know who this person – these people – are. I can't tell if they're friends or enemies but I'm not sure how much I care. I'm just so glad I'm not alone here in this place that I'm sure I would be crying if my eyes were working properly.  
  
I try harder to see the people; I'm looking for the face of a friend. Someone who, though they missed catching me, will pick me up and put me back together again.  
  
Ow – I don't think these people are my friends. Why would I have friends as mean as this? I wonder what I did to make them hurt me.  
  
I have to see their faces.  
  
Oh.  
  
I can't see clearly – it's like there's a misty pink veil over the crack in my eyelid – but I saw enough to know these people aren't people who love me.  
  
Right now I can't think of any people I know, let alone any people who love me, but I know I would recognise them if they were here. There's nothing in these people's expressions other than professional interest.  
  
Professional... hey, they must be doctors. Finally, something makes sense. I'm hurt and I'm in a hospital.  
  
Now if I could only figure out how I got myself hurt.  
  
Suddenly I feel more alone than I did when there was nobody here.  
  
The doctor-people are saying something to me but I can't make it out. It sounds like they're very far away from me. Perhaps I'm about to black out again. I think maybe that would be nice...  
  
  
  
3 hours later  
  
  
  
I promise I'm not going to ask myself any questions until I've opened my eyes.  
  
I can't think at the moment why I feel the need to make such a promise to myself but I guess that's just another thing I'm not going to ask.  
  
I can't do it. I can't open my eyes. This is so strange.  
  
I don't know what's stranger: that I can't open my eyes or that I suspected I might not be able to open my eyes.  
  
"Take it easy. Don't try to move."  
  
A jolt goes through me, first from the shock and then from the pain of jolting when he spoke.  
  
I don't know who is talking to me but I already don't like him.  
  
I can hear the echo of my mother's voice telling me I'll never get anywhere with that kind of attitude.  
  
The funny thing is, I can't remember what I said back.  
  
This half-memory is bringing others to the fore. I think – I might be wrong, but I think I know my name because I think I can remember people calling me it. I have no idea how old I am or what kind of life I lead but I hope that will come.  
  
Bits and pieces are rushing through my brain. I rode a pony at the zoo... someone spilled coffee over me in the street when I was racing to a job interview... at a party someone kissed me... I told the world America bombed Kosovo...  
  
Wait a minute, that can't be right.  
  
I must be screwing up my face because the unidentified person says, "Is the pain bad? You shouldn't need more meds yet, you're already on a higher dose than I'd normally recommend."  
  
I'm not liking this person any more with the passage of time, even though he sounds like a doctor which I guess is a good thing.  
  
He's made me forget what I was starting to remember.  
  
My instinct is to scold him but I have no reason to believe I'd be any more successful at opening my mouth than I have been with my eyes.  
  
I suddenly remember that at some point in the past (near or far, I can't tell yet) I had a tube down my throat.  
  
I concentrate hard for a minute. No, I'm pretty sure there isn't one anymore.  
  
Ah, yes, I remember now. People like the man who's talking to me now telling me to exhale and me not hearing them properly and having a terrible pain while they did something to me. I suppose it was worth it if they got the tube out. The tube hurt.  
  
I fell asleep again then. I think I might do that now.  
  
  
  
2 hours later  
  
  
  
I wake. I am aware of the easy slide into consciousness.  
  
I feel calm and I can tell that I have not felt that way for a long time.  
  
I am remarkably lucid considering I have just woken.  
  
Steadily memories are returning to me and I know, without knowing how I know, that this is important and I should be still and let them come.  
  
I now know who I am and what my job is. That nearly breaks my calm somewhat, but I try to ignore it. I know that the last few times I have been conscious I have lacked this knowledge. I know I'm injured and I'm in a hospital somewhere.  
  
I don't know how I came to be here.  
  
I'm losing my hold on this unaccustomed state of tranquillity.  
  
I know there is someone I wish was here. I don't know what that person's name or gender, physical appearance or the capacity in which I know him or her. I just know there is a person out there somewhere I wish was here now.  
  
They're not. I'm alone this time; there aren't even any doctors in the room. They will come, but for now I am alone.  
  
I practise opening my mouth to stop me from thinking too much in case I think thoughts that frighten me. It's certainly painful – I suspect my jaw is injured too – but I can do it.  
  
Next I try clearing my throat. Ahhhh, mistake! I wasn't prepared for how sore that was going to be. I'm taking a few seconds to gather myself together now.  
  
While I'm gathering the doctor, as predicted, enters with a female nurse. I guess it's time to change my bandages then.  
  
"How are you feeling?" he asks me in a tone intended to convey sympathy.  
  
I'm a little scared to try speaking but I get a sudden panicky feeling that there's something it's imperative I make absolutely sure of.  
  
I have a couple false starts and it comes out croakily at first but I make it to the end of my first sentence:  
  
"Can you find out if the President took his pills?"  
  
  
  
TBC 


	6. Business As Usual

Part 6 - Business As Usual  
  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"Now if you can stand  
  
I would like to take you by the hand  
  
And go for a walk  
  
Past people as they go to work.  
  
Let's get out of this place  
  
Before they tell us that we've just died."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
Zoey meandered through the corridors of power without much of an idea of where she was going. She had stayed away from college since the accident: it wouldn't have been productive to go; everyone was far more interested in asking her the inside story on CJ and Toby than in learning.  
  
Now she was staying at the White House to keep an eye on her father. As the only Bartlet sister who lived close to home, it was the unspoken rule that she was the First Lady's right-hand woman when it came to mother- henning.  
  
Tonight however she had nothing to do. The President had all the care and attention he could take without starting a war. Charlie had received a Presidential order to go home and get a few hours sleep. Everyone else seemed to have done the same thing.  
  
As she passed the Oval Office Zoey marvelled once again at how different the place looked without people in it. She didn't like it.  
  
During the day she'd had Mrs. Landingham to swap home baking recipes with; Donna to run a few hastily-invented errands for; anything to keep her from thinking too hard. She paused outside Leo's office. Margaret, she reflected, Margaret had been a godsend.  
  
Zoey flinched on seeing a tiny mark on the carpet. Blood. Just a drop - she knew well enough it wasn't bloodshed she had to be concerned about - but it was enough to remind a person of their own mortality.  
  
Zoey sat down at Margaret's desk and wondered if her father remembered his.  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
"Yes... No – no, I cannot hold! No... Do I need to remind you again who I work for?"  
  
It's not like me to lose my temper, it really isn't. It must just be the stress of doing half my boss's job as well as my own.  
  
Not that I'm criticising Leo – I'd never do that. The man deserves a medal for holding up under the pressure he's putting on himself. I don't think he's been home in days.  
  
It's just that it's not easy. It's never easy. Under optimum conditions working here is extremely challenging. With a senior staff consisting mostly of one man, it's not far off impossible.  
  
I must say it surprised me that Josh is the one that got back on top of things so quickly. He's always been Leo's fiery, tough sidekick, the one they send in to do the posturing and fight the battles that are too dirty for the President to handle himself.  
  
He's always been passionate and if there's one thing that has been inclined to make him lose his head it's been threats to the well-being of his friends.  
  
He was the first to promise Leo his support when his addictions went people. Even before the President, Josh was there with his pledge to stand at Leo's side and never let him fall.  
  
I've liked Josh a lot more since that time.  
  
With what's happened to CJ and Toby and the toll of all he's been through himself, I would have thought now would have been an excellent time for him to fall apart.  
  
But instead he's outdone us all. He's been working longer hours than even Leo. He's doing his job better than ever before; he's the unofficial Acting Chief of Staff when Leo is at the hospital; he's even done some of the briefings without leading to an overthrow of government, which is a minor miracle for Josh.  
  
Leo is splitting his time between the office and the hospital, at the request of the President who can't be there for security reasons. He has to phone in a lot of work to me and he has to keep the President informed. I must guiltily admit that I'm glad he's kept that responsibility for himself and not passing it on to me.  
  
Sam is turning up for work but he's taking breaks to go to the hospital and he obviously isn't sleeping. Josh realises that he's probably doing more good there than he would here in his current state and is covering for his absences.  
  
I've got Ginger working on finding suitable junior staffers to edit his attempts at speeches. God bless him, diplomacy still isn't one of his strong points, but there's no stopping him trying to do five jobs for the price of one.  
  
What's more, he's not even using work to bury his emotions. He *is* reacting, he's punching walls and yelling. I even heard him having a deep and meaningful with Charlie a couple of days after this happened.  
  
Maybe bizarrely enough for something like to happen was what it took to get him back on his feet.  
  
Still in spite of all his superhuman efforts one man cannot run the White House alone.  
  
This is why great men (and women) need assistants.  
  
Let me tell you, Carol, Bonnie and Ginger are absolutely devastated about what's happened to their bosses and it's had no small effect on Charlie, Donna and Kathy either. Or me for that matter.  
  
But all the assistants have turned up for work early every morning since the crash and each one of us has stayed late into the night trying to fix what we can and hang a picture over what we can't.  
  
That is why I am in the process of losing my temper and that is also why the White House is surviving this incident.  
  
This impotent fool I'm on the phone to seems to think I have nothing better to do with my time than listen to a bad reproduction of 'Greensleeves' until someone can be bothered talking to me.  
  
Well, I'm speaking on behalf of the President's right-hand man, I don't have to put up with this.  
  
"You get up and you get your fat-assed boss and you tell him the President of the United States has a message for him!"  
  
Yes, the stress is taking its toll.  
  
I so dearly want to see CJ. She woke up almost a week ago and I still haven't been able to visit. The hospital won't let me in by the time I've been leaving work lately.  
  
They still don't know what kind of recovery she'll make. Impossible to say, the doctors have been telling us over and over. The First Lady's going crazy but the Secret Service are saying it would risk the health of the hospital's other patients to put in place the security measures that would be necessary for her to go there.  
  
I so want to see her, CJ I mean. I don't think she realised what it means to the rest of us to see her achieve so much. She is immediate proof that being a woman means more than 'not a man.'  
  
We run around, chased by our male bosses and doing their bidding and we watch her on TV keeping the press corps on a leash, or see her stride past making Josh run to keep up, or listen to her throwing witty insults back at Toby and it reminds us that anything is possible.  
  
Or at least it did. I need to see her to know if there's any possibility of all that happening again.  
  
As for Toby, I can only pray (and I do) that the call I passed to Leo this morning was good news. He came in, took the call and was gone within two minutes. He didn't tell me anything except to not tell the President about the call and he hasn't been in contact. I don't even want to think about what it means if it isn't good news.  
  
I gave the operator too much credit. I hang up at the first bar of 'Betty Davis Eyes'.  
  
I took ten minutes out at lunchtime today, I know I shouldn't have with all this work piling up on my desk and Leo's, but I had to go to my favourite health food store to order a gift basket to be sent to the hospital.  
  
The gifts the public have been sending are being donated to charity; the flowers are being handed out in the geriatric wards but I know how to address it to make sure it reaches CJ and I signed Leo's name perfectly on the card.  
  
I suppose that seems despicably insensitive, to send someone bran muffins and vitamin pills when they've just lost the sight in one of their eyes – but I'm not brilliant like Sam or Josh or Leo, or CJ herself. I don't know how to make an appropriate gesture, especially when I haven't even seen her, so I'm just being me. It's all I can do for them now.  
  
I'm so worried about Leo. He'd never forgive me for saying it but he isn't well enough for this kind of stress. He has two terrible diseases, drug addiction and alcoholism and I know how hard it is for him to control them on the best of days.  
  
On days like these I get very scared.  
  
There are several bars on the route he takes between here and the hospital but he would know better than to go to a bar where he might be seen.  
  
If he drinks he'll do it here in the middle of the night, after he's pretended to go home so that I will leave and come back again as soon as he sees my car pull out of the parking lot.  
  
I go into his office to have a rummage through the cabinets and drawers.  
  
Some people would be shocked if they knew I did that but I make a point of it every time things get this bad.  
  
I don't give a damn about civil rights and privacy; I've dedicated my life to serving this man and I'm not going to lose him like that.  
  
I always feel much better after I've checked. Unless he's developed much better hiding places since his Labor Department days he's clean.  
  
I always know he will be – but I have to check because too much is riding on him staying that way.  
  
I'm considering calling Mallory to come and look after him but I don't want him to think I think he can't cope.  
  
I've never quite forgiven Jenny for giving up on him. He needed her support more than he will ever admit and although I've tried to compensate for it since she's been gone I am no substitute.  
  
I just think Mallory's being there could make it a little easier for him.  
  
  
  
Back at my desk Zoey Bartlet is standing looking lost.  
  
Oh dear. I really do have too much to do to babysit as well.  
  
"I just wondered if Leo had a minute for a talk."  
  
"I'm sorry, he's... out just now. Do you need to get a message to him?"  
  
"No." She looks so forlorn. "I was just feeling lonely."  
  
I suppose I really should keep her out of trouble.  
  
I would like to take this opportunity to point out that entertaining a depressed teenage girl is no easy task, particularly when the girl in question is the President's daughter.  
  
She does however come in handy for sealing envelopes and updating me on all the celebrity gossip I miss out on because I'm too busy helping run the country.  
  
I think all the poor kid wants is to talk to someone, any subject will do. I suppose no-one has a lot of time for her amongst all the craziness.  
  
Oh darn, now her father's appeared. I've been steering well clear of the President since the accident as his wrath is something I can quite well do without.  
  
He's as twitchy as Toby at a party – Leo's unreadable expression as he left this morning crosses my mind and I immediately feel guilty about thinking of Toby in that light.  
  
The President is hyper though. He doesn't seem to be able to keep still.  
  
"Daddy, you should be resting. Does Mom know you're down here?"  
  
"I gave your mother the slip, Zoey, and given the amount of times you and I have collaborated on that you have no right to lecture me."  
  
"We're worried about you, Daddy."  
  
I consider slipping away before I get drawn into this conversation.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
I'm backing up towards the door. Neither of them seems to notice.  
  
"You haven't been looking well the last few days."  
  
Made it! I'm out of their field of vision, I can run...  
  
"I'm fi-"  
  
I hear a thud and Zoey scream and fly back in. The President is on the floor; he seems to be unconscious.  
  
Hysterical aides come running when they hear the screams and stand flapping their hands wildly and getting in the way of the Secret Service agents.  
  
I'm on the carpet beside him.  
  
"His pulse feels okay," I inform anyone who happens to be listening.  
  
"You," I say imperiously, pointing at one of the secretaries. "Get the First Lady right now. Nancy – get Charlie, ask if he knows if the President took his pills today. Mr. President? Mr. President, can you hear me?"  
  
I see his eyelids flicker just before the SS agents push me out of the way and take over.  
  
I give Zoey a hug and tell her he's going to be fine. She responds but and I make comforting noises but I'm not really listening. I'm just trying to think of ways to keep this from Leo for as long as possible. It won't be very long, but I can't bear to let him worry about this too.  
  
It's barely a minute before the President and Zoey have been cleared out and I've been left behind wondering how to pick up the pieces this time.  
  
I start by reaching for the phone and dialling Mallory's number.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	7. One Step at a Time

Part 7 - One Step At A Time  
  
~~~~~  
  
"The sky isn't always blue.  
  
The sun doesn't always shine.  
  
It's all right to fall apart  
  
Sometimes."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
Mallory felt ridiculous sitting in the waiting room in her electric-blue evening gown.  
  
She'd been trying it on in preparation for the date she was supposed to be having right now when Margaret had called. An old panic had arisen and she hadn't bothered to change.  
  
Her father laughed when he saw her. She laughed too because she felt such a fool for getting herself so worked up when he was okay.  
  
As the hours wore on she fussed around him like she'd come to do, pressing food on him, trying to get him to go home, even offering (or did they call that 'threatening' these days?) to call her mother.  
  
Now she was sitting alone in the waiting room while he tried one more time to muster the courage to go in to see Toby and she was thinking that maybe he wasn't so okay after all.  
  
She hadn't given him the credit he deserved. He had come further than she'd realised. He wasn't okay: he was taking his biggest emotional knocks since the assassination attempt and he was taking them badly. He was spreading himself too thinly and if she wasn't careful he was about to crack up.  
  
But he was still in control.  
  
He wasn't okay - but he was okay enough by Mallory's standards, the ones she reserved especially for him.  
  
If his friends were okay he would be fine.  
  
Until she knew that that was the case, Mal didn't plan on going anywhere.  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
I have to force myself to ease up on the gas.  
  
The last thing we need right now is for a senior staffer to get a speeding ticket.  
  
For the first few days after the crash I drove so cautiously but as usual serious concerns started topping other serious concerns and I felt the need to get to places as quickly as before.  
  
To be honest I still get a bit of a chill driving at all. Everything you do in a car becomes so automatic, it feels so natural. You're not thinking 'maybe when I turn this corner I'll get thrown off the road'.  
  
Every time I do something without really thinking about it, I get a bit of a shock and I wonder what CJ was thinking about when it happened.  
  
Right now though I'm more worried about the call that precipitated my current journey across town.  
  
'A change in Mr. Ziegler's condition'. What the hell does that mean? I couldn't get any more out of them.  
  
I'm determined Jed isn't going to hear about this until I know what's going on. Margaret's been left with strict instructions not to breathe a word until I call her.  
  
He hasn't been looking well since this happened.  
  
I'm not going to tell him that the situation has changed with Toby until I know what the change is. I can't forget how shattered he was when he spoke to CJ on the phone after she woke up.  
  
She was pretty much incoherent and didn't seem to be following what he said. I don't think it meant anything; the doctors said it was natural given the trauma her body had been through.  
  
She's getting clearer, little by little, since she woke. I don't think anyone's spoken to her about the recovery process or how much mobility she can hope to regain.  
  
She hasn't asked about it. She's only been asking about Toby, constantly wanting to know how he is.  
  
I sit by her side working at my laptop – which today I've forgotten in my haste, damn – and half-listen to her when she's rambling. She goes through periods of clarity and then I put aside what I'm doing and give her my full attention.  
  
When she sees me she'll ask how I'm doing; ask about the President; if Sam's holding up any better; whether Josh has brought down the administration yet.  
  
She doesn't pay much attention to my answering that I'm fine; the President is being fussed to death by Abbey; Sam is getting more functional every day; Josh is being the world-class statesman I always knew he could be.  
  
She only gets animated when she's talking about Toby. It breaks my heart because there's nothing I can tell her. Every few minutes she'll ask me to find a nurse to see if there's been any change. When I report back that there's none she wants me to chase down a doctor in case the nurses are missing something.  
  
She didn't remember what happened at first. It's coming back to her ever so slowly, one detail at a time.  
  
Two days ago she remembered she'd been the driver. She couldn't stop crying and calling Toby's name. They sedated her after a while.  
  
She's been asking about Toby even more often since then.  
  
I wonder what they told her when she asked this morning.  
  
If this is bad news... I'll have to call Jed, Margaret, Josh, Sam. Then I'll have to go in and talk to CJ. I'd be willing to bet that if it's bad news they won't have told her yet.  
  
I don't know if I can cope with this.  
  
I hope Margaret's still as on the ball as she used to be.  
  
I need her to tell me if I'm falling.  
  
I have to pass Toby's room on the way to the desk. I'm determined to find the courage to look inside so that I don't need to wait for a doctor to tell me.  
  
But I don't need to find any courage because to my surprise the door is open.  
  
As I hover not knowing whether I should go in, I hear the too-familiar sound of CJ's crying.  
  
I still don't know whether or not I should go in.  
  
There's another noise, a kind of gagging sound.  
  
It can't be, can it?  
  
I finally look in. Well, he's not dead.  
  
I send a prayer of thanks to a deity I'd forgotten I believed in.  
  
But going by what I can see from here, he isn't Toby again either.  
  
She's sitting in a wheelchair beside the bed, one hand pressed against her mouth trying to control herself.  
  
His eyes are darting everywhere, in total contrast to her when she woke up. He looks feverish but whether it's just the panic or not I can't tell.  
  
I can't make out what he's trying to say.  
  
CJ tries to bend closer but she can't really manage it with the broken ribs.  
  
I can't bring myself to move. I see these people every day. I don't know how to see them like this.  
  
He tries again. I caught a snatch of it this time, it sounded something like, "I've not been here."  
  
She touches his cheek with her other hand. He reacts slightly and she draws back at once. Then he lets his gaze rest on her. She can't bear to meet it.  
  
Ever since this happened I've been telling her it wasn't her fault. I don't give a damn about Butterfield; it wasn't her fault. It was an accident, could have happened to any one of us.  
  
Even when she was still unconscious and they said she probably couldn't hear me, I was telling her it wasn't her fault.  
  
She still thinks she did this to him.  
  
I want to go in and tell her again but I can't bring myself to intrude upon the scene.  
  
It finally occurs to me what some of his frantic movement is about. He's trying to reach out to her – with his left hand. He doesn't realise it's not there anymore.  
  
Hospitals always make me feel ill.  
  
He's speaking again and it's frustrating him that she can't understand.  
  
"Toby, I can't- Try going slower, okay?"  
  
I'm paraphrasing here because I didn't catch it all but he definitely said her name and the rest seems to fit with what he said next:  
  
"CJ. What colour is your blouse?"  
  
"I – I'm not wearing a blouse, Toby. It's a dressing gown..."  
  
"What. Colour?"  
  
"It's white, Toby."  
  
Not the absence of colour, rather all of them at once. But that's just light, isn't it?  
  
"CJ."  
  
He swings his right arm over to catch her wrist, getting the lines in his veins in a terrible tangle that makes me cringe.  
  
"Where I was. It was dark and light and red."  
  
"I don't understand..."  
  
"What colour is the sky, CJ?"  
  
"The sky? The sky's-"  
  
She hesitates and hangs her head.  
  
"The sky's grey."  
  
He settles down and looks happy about that, which puzzles me until I remember how good Toby is at dealing with shades of grey.  
  
"I was worried," he explains. "I thought it might be blood-red."  
  
It's too much for me. I don't want to be here.  
  
I stumble down the corridor and yell at the nurses for letting CJ get up to see him, just because I'm used to exerting authority over people.  
  
It's time to call Margaret, I suppose. Everyone's going to be thrilled.  
  
They're both alive. I can breathe. I feel like shit.  
  
"Hi, Leo, thanks for checking in. I want you to know everything is absolutely fine here."  
  
Margaret always sounds a little strange but this is just suspicious.  
  
"Margaret? Is something going on that I should know about?"  
  
"No. Is there something going on that *I* should know about?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, actually. Toby's awake."  
  
I quickly hold the receiver away from my ear in anticipation of the squeal.  
  
"Is he okay? I knew things would be fine!"  
  
"He's... conscious. Talking. CJ's with him. Margaret, are you sure nothing else is going on?"  
  
"Positive. In fact it's so quiet that you shouldn't bother coming back in at all today."  
  
That does it.  
  
"Okay, Margaret, I don't know what you're up to but I'm on my way right now."  
  
"Leo, don't-"  
  
I've hung up and am striding towards the exit. Any excuse to get out of this place will do.  
  
As I leave I collide with a young woman coming through the door in the opposite direction.  
  
"Oh, Mallory..."  
  
  
  
TBC 


	8. Raindrops

Part 8 - Raindrops  
  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"If I seem bleak  
  
Well, you'd be correct.  
  
And if I don't speak  
  
It's cause I can't disconnect.  
  
But I won't be burned by the reflection  
  
Of the fire in your eyes  
  
As you're staring at the sun."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
Andrea turned the ring on her thumb round and round. Toby's wedding band. She'd had no idea she was still down as his next-of-kin until her secretary had put the hospital's call through.  
  
She hadn't realised how much she missed him until then either.  
  
After they'd returned his ring to her she had gone up to the attic and opened the little box, buried deep beneath winter blankets and old clothes.  
  
She hadn't touched her ring once since their final fight.  
  
If he responded at all, Toby's explanation of the failure of their marriage was, "She wanted my soul - and I don't have one," but Andi didn't buy it for a second.  
  
Just about the only thing she'd ever been sure of in their relationship was what had ended it. What her mistake had been. She shouldn't have apologised.  
  
She'd been in a foul mood; they'd fought; she'd apologised.  
  
It had been over there and then.  
  
An apology was an admission he was right and she was wrong. It also made her 'the reasonable one' when their relationship had always been based on a complete lack of reason. It threw the balance off entirely.  
  
For them to be equals again he'd have had to apologise too and she had known full well he wouldn't do that.  
  
And after all that time they'd taken his arm off before he'd take his ring off.  
  
The woman who'd married him wept silent tears of relief that he was going to live.  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
She called me after they called her.  
  
They called her rather than me. I'm his brother; she divorced him!  
  
I wonder why he kept her as his next-of-kin. We'll have to get that changed.  
  
She didn't have my cell number; it took hours for her to track me down. Why would she have it? I'm her ex-husband's brother, not exactly top of her contact list.  
  
The thing is, after she, slowly and shakily, told me all this, I realised I don't have Toby's cell number either.  
  
The President of the United States is closer to my brother these days than I am.  
  
He got ill over this, so they say. The papers have been full of wild stories since this happened but from what I've heard from the constant stream of people who're visiting Toby and this other woman at least some of it seems to be true.  
  
Guess it can't be too serious or they'd have made some kind of announcement.  
  
That's one trait I share with my brother. We're not inclined to believe much until we see the evidence.  
  
I don't know much about this woman who was in the car with him. We've met before I think, at the occasional dinner party Andi and he had, but I never paid all that much attention to my brother's friends. I certainly didn't know that she was a particularly special friend.  
  
I guess I didn't pay all that much attention to him.  
  
My first instinct is to not give a damn about who she is and just hate her for driving the car that almost killed my brother.  
  
It's all very well her sitting at his bedside holding his hand and trying to hold a conversation with him. It's too late now. Look what she's done to him.  
  
But then it's not like she got off lightly. She can't walk now; they don't think she ever will again. She's lost the sight in one eye. It's going to be hard for her to get around without being able to walk or drive.  
  
It occurs to me to wonder if she'll gain weight, what with not being as active as she used to be. Probably not, she doesn't look like she has much appetite right now, for food or life.  
  
Like Toby, the most insignificant details plague my mind.  
  
They've told me the accident was no-one's fault; it was a combination of unfortunate circumstances. A horrible coincidence. No charges are going to be brought. The bridge has been closed until the state installs more safety barriers.  
  
I'm still angry at her.  
  
Maybe it's not because she was the driver. I like to think I'm logical enough to accept that anyone can get into trouble on the road.  
  
I think it's possible that I'm angry at this woman, this 'CJ' – what the hell kind of a name is that? – because she's in my brother's life, from what I've seen here she's an enormous part of my brother's life, and I didn't even know she existed.  
  
I meant to call. I did. It's just that I'm a busy man, you know? My job places a lot of demands on me – just like Toby's.  
  
When he woke up he didn't seem to know me.  
  
He's been changed, really changed. Because it's been so long since I've seen him I don't know if it's the head injuries or the shock of it all or if it's something that's been growing for a long time, but these past few days when I look at him I don't see the guy I grew up with.  
  
I wonder how well I know him.  
  
I stand in his hospital room and I watch this woman I don't know stroke his hair and kiss his cheek and squeeze his hand and strangest of all to me I watch him squeeze back.  
  
Yet he barely seems to recognise me.  
  
They seem to be drawing the energy they need to survive from each other. Or maybe it's the will to survive they're drawing from each other.  
  
I don't understand what's going on with my brother.  
  
Visitors come and ago and he receives them with something close to gratitude, which just isn't Toby, but she's the only one he seems to be connecting to at the moment.  
  
His speech is sporadic still, as is his understanding of others. They say it should pass with time.  
  
But the two of them seem to be able to communicate on a deeper level. I suppose it's natural. They've just shared a very intense experience.  
  
Still, it puzzles me. It scares me a little.  
  
You can see it, if you watch them. Sure, when he's up to it they talk to each other, saying it's going to be okay, that it is okay, that what they've lost is nothing compared to what they still have. But when he can't hold a sensible conversation they look at each other and you can *see* it. They're still talking, just not in words.  
  
Toby's life is words! How is it possible that I've never spoken to the person who's changing the very fibre of my brother's being?  
  
Right now I'm taking a break, having a walk around the city. It got to be too much for me, being the outsider – it's like when the other people in an elevator are talking in a foreign language and giggling.  
  
Their boss, Leo, is with them just now. He doesn't seem to mind or think it's strange. He's just wonderfully happy that they're alive and seem set to stay that way for a while longer.  
  
It's cloudy overhead. I hate this city. I don't know how Toby can live here. He once said he doesn't know how I can live anywhere else.  
  
It looks like rain. I should have brought an overcoat.  
  
Apparently some people like to walk in the rain – a woman I once dated said it helped clear her head. If you ask me, all it does is give you pneumonia and one Ziegler in hospital is more than enough.  
  
I'm a practical person. I don't have a poetic soul, the same woman once told me.  
  
I'm walking along wondering if Toby has a poetic soul. I would never, ever have said so... until maybe now.  
  
He can paint any picture he wants with words. I've listened to his speeches since he got Graham Hemingway elected class president in the sixth grade.  
  
I suppose I thought he had a lot of brain but not much of a heart.  
  
I've been looking at it all wrong.  
  
I think my brother does have a poetic soul, a remarkable soul.  
  
The rain starts. Shit. I duck inside the nearest store which happens to be a Barnes and Noble.  
  
While I'm here I think I'll buy him a soppy romance novel, just to hear him roar about the bad grammar.  
  
Also because I think the happy ending will appeal to the new, reborn Toby that I've been given a second chance to get to know.  
  
I guess I should also get to know this CJ he thinks so much of.  
  
First of all I should swallow my pride like my brother seems to have done and express my gratitude.  
  
They are going to recover. Thank you.  
  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"There's more to living than only surviving  
  
Maybe I'm not there –  
  
But I'm still trying."  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
With shaking hands William Eastman signed his Last Will and Testament. It was a brief document, a poor resolution to a life, consisting of a small legacy for Karen and a few instructions relating to his funeral. His lawyer asked if he wished to specify an epitaph for the gravestone. Eastman replied that he didn't want one.  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
CJ awkwardly folded up her copy of the Washington Post and smiled at Toby. Danny's byline was a moving piece of writing and a remarkable tribute. She didn't expect him to comment on it. He didn't have to.  
  
A few blocks from the hospital a young mother laid down her copy of the paper. Politicians had always seemed somewhat inhuman to her. She'd never really thought too much about who she voted for. She usually voted for a minority party because it didn't seem to make much difference who got in.  
  
Now, however, she was starting to think that maybe Bartlet had more going for him than most Presidents.  
  
Toby shifted in his sleep. He half-woke and was aware of CJ's hand on his cheek. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly and he slipped back into oblivion, secure in the knowledge that they really were going to be all right.  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
In the White House Margaret told another caller that Mr. McGarry was unavailable. Josh took a ten-second break to share a joke with Donna. Charlie fought to get the President to stay in bed while the First Lady rearranged the trip to Elizabeth's.  
  
The sun set, the world turned, and the entire staff needed their alarm clocks to wake them up the next morning.  
  
  
  
The End  
  
  
  
First posted May 2001  
  
  
  
The beginning of chapter quotes are from:  
  
1. "Intimacy" by the Corrs  
  
2. Philippians 2:14-15  
  
3. John 1:5  
  
4. "Remember" by Christina Rossetti  
  
5. Pass on the origin of the prayer, sorry  
  
6. "Bar Italia" by Pulp  
  
7. "One and One" by B.Steinberg, R. Nowells & M.C. D'Ubaldo  
  
8. "Staring At The Sun" by the Offspring 


End file.
